


Descent on Scraped Palms

by Viktorye



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Canon Related, Death, Gen, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viktorye/pseuds/Viktorye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The frozen heights of Gagazet cannot collapse an indomitable will.<br/>Defeated by Yunalesca, Auron struggles down the face of the lonely mountain, forced to confront the reality of his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

Without regard for the treacherous landscape, without thought for himself, or for anything in the world, Auron trailed out from the mouth of the dome at Zanarkand with the wind at his back. The flurries caught his tattered robes and pushed them into a frenzied cloud of reds and blues, tangling his mangled arms and legs. With each clumsy step his blood dyed his front blacker, squeezing out in coagulated clumps, running in rivulets down his legs to pool in his boots and leave a trail in the loamy earth.

Ahead, through clouded vision, he spied the mesa. Furiously he scrambled up the slope where he collapsed, crying out as he broke his fall with his chin, teeth throbbing and head pounding.

The smell of burning stung his nose. Before him the last few strings of smoke drew themselves upward from the blackened logs of a bonfire, and Auron wondered who had been there to light it. _It’s been days- no, weeks, since the three of us stopped to make camp on this hill, hasn’t it? I remember. Braska burned his finger on an ember in the sand. Jecht laughed at him, Braska smiled, but I was ..._  Auron pressed his knees into the dirt, and an ache traveled through his core. The sun was beginning to set, casting its sickly orange light across the earth. Long shadows grew from where he knelt, and from the ruined city beyond the temple they reached and stretched in ghostly shapes. The grooves left behind where Jecht had buried his toes in the sand were haloed with the fading light until the sight of them was unbearable, and Auron turned away.

Soon Maester Mika would read the High Summoner’s Convocation. Auron recalled those words which had been burned into his mind, engraved at the base of Lady Yocun's effigy where each morning the monks would kneel to press their foreheads, uttering prayers against the patinated bronze.

 

_All the Congregation of Yevon_   
_Multitude, lift up a Hymn of Celebration!_   
_High Summoner Braska has given himself to Death, so that Spira might live._

 

The thought cracked against his skull again and again, and Auron clasped his stomach as the taste of metal soured his mouth and a sudden wave of unconscionable loneliness passed through him. Never mind the sucking wound that sputtered and spat his blood into his hands with each breath; nor the numbness and unfamiliar weight of the right side of his face. He curled inward, cradling himself with swollen arms, swaying to and fro and imagining that the hands gripping his sides could be those of his companions.

Face down, prostrated, he cried. He cried, and cried. Eardrums pounding, the warrior monk rent his clothes and shamed himself with tears, ripping out his dark hair with balled fists as minutes, an hour, three hours passed, until the sun dipped behind the hill and the world was blanketed in darkness.

But the skeleton of Zanarkand was just as silent as it had always been, and Auron's wailing was quiet, muffled in the dirt as he lay there, small, and astonishingly insignificant.


	2. Yellow

 

"You promised!"

Auron ran a hand over his face, scowling as he scratched absently at the stubble on the bend of his jaw. His fingers drummed against his coffee cup as the perpetually sticky fingers of his young charge tugged aggressively at the free-hanging sleeve of his robe, and the man struggled to keep the fabric from slipping down his arm. Internally Auron chastised himself for allowing the boy to order as many honey rolls as he could stomach, and for promising to take him to the Duggles scrimmage after school. The man grimaced at his own indiscretion and surmised that he was not cut out for parenthood.

"Uncle! You promised! Uncle! Mom says she can’t! Please, please, please! Come on!"

The young boy jerked down sharply, half exposing Auron's fissured shoulder, for which Tidus received a hiss and a painful pinch. With immediate regret Auron sucked in a mouthful of air, pursing his lips and attempting an apology, though it came too late. Tidus paused, grasped at the newly blanched flesh of his arm with a look of utter betrayal, and began to cry. How Auron hated the sound of it! Though, 'hated’ was perhaps too kind an appraisal of his feelings towards the noise of a child's crying. ‘Despised’ was more appropriate. The sound of snotty gulping and sniffling, and the telltale sight of a quivering lip filled him with a sort of divine fury, and Auron had to resist the urge to retaliate for fear of making it worse.

"I'm sorry. Please don't cry. _Please._ "

“You _promised!!_ ” Tidus snapped, red-nosed.

“I promised.”

The warrior sniffed, wiped his nose and pulled a frown, watching Tidus swiping at his cheeks with tatty sleeves, regarding him from a distance above the rim of his dark glasses. Somehow for a moment, though blond and diminutive as he was, he was the spitting image of Jecht. Auron couldn't help but smirk. Impudent. Emotional. A brat. Even Tidus' snotty crying seemed, for a second, less an annoyance and more something of a fond memory. _A memory? But of what?_

Pausing, and breathing a sigh, "Fine,” said Auron. “And don’t call me uncle. I’m just a friend.”

Tidus didn't seem to hear him, and instantly forgot his tears for favor of a loose-toothed smile. Auron did not protest as Tidus clambered up his knee, seating himself in the man’s lap, though the muscle in his neck tensed as he felt the boy’s surprisingly strong grip circle him in a hug, wet face pressing into the swollen musculature of Auron’s chest. A waitress floated by, collecting the empty glasses from their table with the tenuous haste of a bumblebee drifting from booth to booth, giving Auron a flirtatious glance as she paused at his side. He returned her  gaze with a quizzical expression before realizing she’d come with the bill. Auron’s free hand fished about in his breast pocket, producing four 10 gil pieces. _The coins kind of look like a honeycomb_ , he thought, stacking them up on his palm. He bumped his fist against Tidus’ shoulder and pushed the money into the boy’s hand.

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to pay for breakfast?”

  



	3. White

White.

It had been four days now. Four days, three nights. He sat within a hollow crack in the mountainside at the fleeting safety of his campfire, now threatened by an encroaching blizzard which licked and swiped at the cave mouth, howling like a beast.

Shaking madly, Auron resisted the urge to lie down directly in the flames to feel just a little comfort, tempted by the prospect that death was perhaps a bit warmer than Mount Gagazet. _I'm cold._ His teeth chattered and rattled his skull as his stomach complained loudly. The tips of his fingers felt numb as he picked at the frozen pinkish crust which had spread down the side of his face. Suddenly, he brushed against the burgeoning mass just below his eye socket, and a knot of dread in his stomach pulled his fingers away. _Was that there yesterday …?_ Silently Auron wondered if this is what it felt like to completely fall apart. _I'm hungry. What can I do? Hunt? How? Ask for help? The Ronso don't cross to this side of Gagazet. I can’t see. I’m so cold. I'm going to starve. I'm going to starve. No, I'm going to …_

Thoughts of food flooded his mind. Auron reached an icy hand into his robe and underneath his shirt, feeling along the grooves of his ribs which were growing more and more pronounced.The flesh of the dead deer he had found buried in the snow would not sustain him for long, and it was already midday. He concluded that it would be safer to spend the night in Ronso territory, and had estimated that only five or six more hours of hiking at his current pace would put him over the summit and onto steadier terrain. Auron's brain urged his body to move, but his legs refused to budge. His arms hung like sandbags at his sides. Dry lips parted, his good eye half-lidded, he watched the fire choke itself out on the last charred twig in a pile of ash. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I’ll freeze. I’ll become a part of Gagazet, and I'll stay here forever._

"That's quitter talk," came a voice at the mouth of the cave. Auron didn't respond, only staring despondently into his lap until the voice spoke again.

"You listening? Get up, Auron! You've got a job to do, hear me?"

The monk looked up, brows knitting as the tears welling in his eye began to freeze over. _Jecht… Is that you...?_

Sure as anything, there stood the Zanarkander, leaning into the cave, his tanned skin like a shock of dark chocolate against the snowy backdrop. Bare feet tucked into the ice, his tousled hair catching snowflakes like a black sky gathering stars, he curled his lip and laughed like a devil.

"You look about as pathetic as my kid right now! I can't believe that, the great guardian Auron - crying like a baby! Man, that's disappointing." Jecht cupped his face in his hands and pantomimed tears by tracing his finger down his cheek before stepping into the white of the flurry and disappearing from view.

“Jecht … Jecht!” Auron cried out breathlessly, clambering to his feet, stumbling over the remains of the fire as he chased the apparition out of the cave mouth. His sudden liveliness churned Auron’s stomach, and he hadn’t covered two yards before the contents of his belly spilled out from his mouth onto the ground. Heaving, desperately gasping for air, he hoarsely called out for his companion as he trailed into the open air of the cliffside, clutching his stomach and stumbling about like a drunkard. Everything blurred together. The white of the mountainside was the white of the clouds was the white of the snow, and he searched desperately for that strip of dark skin in the whipping wind. _He must have gone ahead. He must be waiting._ His legs moved autonomously, carrying him up the slope until his mind had lost track of just how long he had been traveling.

It was an hour, or three, before Auron finally caught up with Jecht, spying him in the distance seated comfortably in a snowbank warming his toes at a roaring bonfire. A dumb grin spread over his face, or, at least the side that was not frozen stiff, and he stumbled like a penguin chick to the precipice of the snowdrift, where he fell on his belly and crawled to the fireside.

“You made it! We were beginning to think you’d turned into a popsicle,” Jecht cackled, turning a skewer, with a glistening morsel of crispening meat impaled at one end, over and over above the flames. “Did you know Braska knows how to gut a rabbit?”

“Lord Braska - !” exclaimed Auron, who was too transfixed on Jecht’s face to notice the roasted kebab of meat and vegetables Jecht was handing him.

“He’ll be back up in a minute, had to pray, or take a leak or something. Eat up, chickenbones, it’s gettin’ cold!” he exclaimed, resting a hand on Auron’s icy forehead, which the monk subconsciously leaned into like a cat being scratched behind the ears. He had just nearly climbed into Jecht’s lap when he heard his name from over the hill, and whipped around violently, kicking the blitzer’s meal into the fire.

“Auron! I’m so happy to see you. No, wait - don’t get up!”

Braska’s protesting was to no avail, as Auron’s arms had surrounded him in a flash, knocking the two of them over into the snow. Buried to his eyebrows in his plentiful robes, the summoner struggled to free himself from the grip of his guardian, and laughed, and laughed until it hurt to laugh. Auron too, though his was more a mixture of snorting and blubbering, crying unrestrained into his master’s headdress.

“What a couppla babies!” Jecht barked as he abandoned his meal and tossed himself onto the dogpile, taking both men into his arms, headbutting Auron in the nose and rubbing his knuckles furiously into Braska’s scalp. They howled and rolled around like a litter of puppies until it hurt to breathe, and until Braska could not pry Auron’s face from his chest. They ate, and drank, laughing until the sky began to darken and the wind picked up speed along the path.

“We ought to move along,” someone suggested in the fervor, and the trio picked up their things and began the ascent to the tip of the slope, laughing and shouting as they walked together. An hour passed and saw Auron drag his feet, slumped, but the guardian and summoner that flanked him on either side supported his weight on their steady arms. The sky was a perfect royal blue and the mountain a block of white, and the sun from the west cast their shadows on the path in absolute black. Auron looked up from his place near the ground at the illuminated faces of his friends; the obstinate Jecht, boorish, reckless, _fun_ ; the kind and indomitable Braska, honest, _good_. _We’re Team Delightful Irony, isn’t that right?_ If the wind hadn’t completely shut his throat, and if the last shred of pride in his heart hadn’t stilled his tongue, he would have told them everything. His fears, his suffering - and how his heart ached to tell them how much he loved them.

 

Ready to walk on his own, Auron steadied himself against his companions and dug his boots hard into the snow, wavering in the wild gusts but otherwise primed to continue unassisted. Braska’s hand left his, then Jecht’s, and soon the two were ahead of him by two meters.

“Wait,” he called, “wait!” His voice was only a squeak, and it was inaudible in the howling wind. Jecht and Braska stopped for a moment, and turned to look at him almost incredulously. Their faces were obscured by the flurries of snow which seemed to whirl straight through them.

“We’re almost there,” Braska’s soft assurance cut the shrill rush of the air.

“C’mon! He’s bein’ a slug.” Jecht grumbled. Auron waved his arms in the wind, trying to shout.

“I’m trying! Please!”

Nothing slowed their progress, and their shoulders heaved as they gave up trying to communicate. Three meters. Five meters. Ten. Consumed in whiteness. Blanketed. Auron tried to shield his face from the increasing violence of the wind, his eye stinging, snowblind, the tatters of his sleeves swatting his face. Braska’s deep red disappeared into the distance. Jecht’s dark hair curled in knots and tangles and soon too was swallowed. Auron pumped his legs harder than he ever had, his heart beating wildly, as scabbed wounds began to open up and fresh, hot blood oozed, and froze, and shattered into pieces as his body worked to climb faster, faster, higher, until the pair was in sight again, waiting at a plateau in the distance. When his legs failed, he fell to his knees and shoveled through the snow with his elbows, pain and relief exiting him with every breath as he drew nearer. The wind pulled off what was left of the golden ribbon withholding his hair and in a burst the shreds of his raven hair pelted his shoulders like a stinging whip.

Panting, exhausted, he drew himself to his feet, beside the summoner and the blitzer who stood motionless before what seemed like a wall of ice. Auron gathered his wild hair into his fist and tucked it back, as the wind was stopped by the mass of rock and shining ice that stood before him. He reached for Braska’s shoulder but couldn’t seem to find him. Jecht’s hand beside him was empty air.

His blindness gradually lifted as he looked towards the wall, and saw that the monolith of ice was a perfect mirror in the setting sunlight.

No Braska.

No Jecht.

Only Auron, alone, stood at the top of the mountain.

He approached his reflection, reaching out a hand to see if this too was an illusion, but the cold of the wall told him otherwise. Coming closer, his heart dropped low, and he was met by the sight of his uneven eyes. One, the left, red and swollen, eyelashes crusted over with ice. He touched it, and it stung. And the other, the right, dangling from its socket but frozen to his cheek, frozen black, staring, staring, staring.

  
_(Descent on scraped palms_   
_Alone in the empty white_   
_Yours is twofold pain.)_

 

 


	4. Blue

It was three minutes into the second half. One of the Abes’ best forwards had been substituted for a benchwarmer, and the Whelks of F-South were up one point, three to two, with every defender checked on the offense. From where Auron sat, the digital scoreboard ignited the pulsing water with electric blue energy as the numbers on the timer flickered past. Two minutes remained, and a turnover gave the Abes control of the ball. Excitement masked behind his shades, the guardian silently read the action to himself.

_Goffa to Damasca. Damasca breaks on Whelk rusher Pippek and makes a pass over the center line to Rilo, the forward. Rilo tackled by Vendt, and fumbles! Caught by Lammu, Whelks ball, but Rilo tackles! It goes through! Abes ball! Rilo passes to Fineat, who dribbles three meters and makes a pass to …_

Auron leaned forward and clenched his jaw.

_… the benchwarmer! Youngest substitute center forward in Abes history, and royal pain in the neck, Tidus!_

The Whelks, with most of their team offsides per the sudden interception, launched an offensive towards the front, but were too late. The Abes defensive formed a barricade around their youngest blitzer, Goffa took down the Whelks center forward, and Tidus' leg cut the water to send the ball torpedoing into the goal. The buzzer blared sharply, and the scoreboard turned over. Auron almost shot right out of his seat and stifled a cheer, swiftly sitting firm on the bench for fear of making a fool of himself. Looking down, worried that his excited vise grip on his sleeve might have left a permanent crease, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a puddle between his feet.

_Who is that?_ Unshaven, russet lips pursed, cheeks brushed with an alcoholic blush, peppery hair unkempt and flaring out like the fins of Sin itself - Auron stared at his image a moment too long, leering bemusedly as he pondered what Braska and Jecht would think if they could only see him now. _What happened to the boy with the round chin and broad shoulders? With soft skin and two eyes? He’s just an old dog now, but when was he a man?_ His attention drifted off as he passed a fingertip over the smooth hollow of his eyelid, when suddenly the sound of the buzzer shook him alert. Auron glanced up just in time to see his protégé waving at him from the sphere pool, surrounded by his animated teammates who took turns high-fiving and jostling him about. Behind them the scoreboard burst alive with color, the timer flashing double zeroes, the marquee loudly announcing an Abes victory, four to three.

_Yes!! He did it! Yes!!_

Heart racing, Auron shook himself of his thoughts, puffed out a proud breath and smiled, waving coolly back as Tidus gave a thumbs up and swam to the center of the pool where Whelks and Abes exchanged handshakes. Rubbing his shades clean with the fabric of his sleeve, Auron let his head dip down, awash in the fading electric light. _It was just his birthday, he’s fourteen now. You would be so proud of him. I wish you could have been here to see him._ He grinned a bit, picking at the whiskers on his chin. _You’d be proud of me, too, you know. I know all the rules now, all the players, too. I even have a t-shirt. I have to go now, I need to take him home. Talk to you later._

Tidus clapped his guardian on the shoulder with a still-damp palm, plopping down on the bench beside him as he furiously ruffled his stringy hair with a towel.

“Good game,” Auron remarked.

“I didn’t think you’d be watching. You know this was just a scrimmage, right?” Tidus snickered. “You were the only one in the stands!”


	5. Black

A frozen morning was breaking over the peaks of Gagazet, though it was a gray morning, a layer of clouds sitting thick on the spine of the mountain and slicking the snow over with a sheen of ice. The rays of the white sun could only kiss the earth through a few tiny holes in the barrier, though enough to wet the icicles which tinkled together like a windchime, dangling precariously above Auron’s motionless body.

The cold drops of ice water on his cheek and an ubiquitous ache roused him from unpleasant dreams, and still taken by sleep he smiled warmly. The nightmare was done, and he would wake in the candlelight of the cloister in Bevelle, comfortable under blankets in his cell, among his books and the beads of prayer which dripped from the walls in graceful parabolas. He would stretch, and yawn, and shuffle to the lavatory to shave the shadow of a beard from his jaw. At nine o’clock he would suffer through Choir where he would do his best to hide his voice behind the other men, and afterward he would breakfast with Wen Kinoc, who would lace his beard in porridge with every spoonful. His stomach gurgled loudly and Auron shocked awake. He felt his heart drop into his belly and a sweat began to bead on his forehead as he focused his vision on the tiny crystals of ice beside him which melted with every increasingly frustrated breath he puffed into the snow. His pillow was far away. Thoughts of millet porridge and the warmth of home curled his lips into a grimace. Thoughts of Braska welled tears, and Auron bit his lip.

_Focus. Focus. Order of Yevon keep me strong for I am but one man and I have no strength without the fear of Death. Order of Yevon keep me strong for I am but one man and I have no strength without the fear of Death. Order of Yevon keep me strong -_

He stopped himself short. The familiarity of it was calming, but the time to abandon that ritual prayer had passed the moment Yunalesca took gentle Braska and Jecht into her sanctuary. Now was the time to awaken. Lying on his left side, Auron tried to right himself, once, twice, three times, unsure how he could possibly be so stiff from a restless few hours’ sleep, though the pain which began to flower through his body sent a wave of panic through him as he realized his flesh was frozen solid in the snowbank. Breath short, he chipped away at his icy shackles with his gloved hand, frustrated by his slow progress. Auron looked for the sun in the sky to judge the time, but unable to find it, clenched his teeth, counted down from ten before ripping his body from the clutch of the ice.

Red seeped into the snow like a syrup. Auron had never felt such an intense pain, seething and panting as his side and arm throbbed, partially debrided of skin and frostbitten black as coal. He cursed himself for having fallen asleep in the drift. Examining himself he could see the extent of the damage; purple strains of frozen arteries ran up the length of his arm, black patches spreading in his armpit, and Auron found it nearly impossible to force his stiffened arm to his side. His right hand probed frantically underneath his shirt, forcefully shredding away the icy crust that had formed within his wounds, and for a brief second he noted the sudden appearance of a frozen abscess in the place of his nipple. The fingers on his left hand were frozen stiff and black with rot, swollen beyond recognition, fingernails brittle and ashen. Mouth agape, he swallowed dryly, unable to conjure an emotion to express the thoughts shooting through his head.

“This is nothing. Let’s go. Let’s go,” he repeated to himself in a hushed tone between coughs, over and over as he tried and failed to bring himself to his feet. _Come on. Almost there._ Toes frozen and rump cold, he managed to struggle to his knees, and resigned himself to crawling over the precipice of the mountain top. From his new vantage point, he could see the whole of Northern Spira stretching out before him. The evergreen Calm Lands which lay past the craggy heights of the mountain glowed soft in the sunlight where a break in the clouds illuminated the land, and the weary monk could just make out the Scar in the landscape left by Sin so long ago. He touched a hand to his cheek. A sign of life suddenly caught his eye. Directly below, down the mountain four miles, maybe five, smoke from Ronso bonfires rose in black columns and filled Auron’s nose with the scent of cooking meat. Ronso would mean food, it would mean medicine, and rest.

His body felt instantly light. His vision sharp. Teeth bared, hunger voracious, Auron staggered down the pathway with revitalized energy, looking equal parts confident and cannibalistically insane. The past few days had seen his beard grow in, and while it had always been, in his opinion, unattractively patchy, the stress of the mountain groomed it with ice and blood and shaped it into a sawtoothed tangle. This, combined with his dangling eyeball and frozen black hand, gave him the appearance of some vengeful red-faced demon woken from his den in the snow, and Auron certainly felt monstrous. The scent of food, so close, nearly sent him into a fit. His mind raced as his careless footfalls took him slowly down the mountain face.

_Curried goat in brown sauce with boiled onions… Ronso herb paste and spinach with a bloody, juicy steak! Roast lamb shoulder… with seasoned vegetables and… Sanubian spices… A whole basket of warm honey rolls... with sweet buttermilk… my..._

_My... body is falling._

_The ground collapsing from underneath me. I’m falling? Why do I feel a thousand miles away, above myself? This is happening. No. My stomach is dropping, I want to vomit, everything is white but I look down and see the slope coming up fast, here it is now, closing my eyes, help me! Someone! I don’t want to see, I don’t want to see!_

  
\---

 

Auron wondered just how much Yevon must have hated him. How much it must have despised him. After all, Yevon sent him to the field. Yevon had seen Auron’s fellow monks split clean in half. Heads crushed, brains splattered in the dirt. Screaming, gathering their entrails as they were eaten alive by some vicious, damnable fiend. And while their last moments were no doubt seized in absolute terror, in a second it was over with. It was merciful. Their suffering sparked like a flame and was extinguished in a flash, quick enough not to leave even a smoke trail.

He wondered why Yevon would prolong his suffering. Auron looked down his blood soaked front, flecked in quiet falling snow, silently pondering his fractured body; his splintered right femur jutting through his skin and clothing, his left shinbone shattered in four places, his kneecap dislocated, right foot bent backwards. Pelvis fractured. Vertebrae compounded. The ghost of his scream echoed off the faraway cliffs and for a moment he wondered if Yevon would send an avalanche to bury him. He shook his head and tried to continue, though he was unable to move. A clenched stomach was the only evidence of his effort. Frostbitten, miserable, he sat in the gathering snow like an old statue, weather beaten, loved once, but a broken relic forgotten on a faraway mountain top, beholden to an antiquated tradition of death.

Auron did not feel like crying. Truth be told, he did not feel capable of even parting his lips. He merely sat, ruminating, crumpled forward as warm blood and urine pooled around him.

He prayed.

_ Lord Braska... keep me strong. I am but one man and I have no strength without the memory of you. _


	6. Backache

The tide sloshed slowly against the side of the houseboat with the same rhythmic lapping as a dog grooming its underside. The thousand lights of Zanarkand’s skyline glittered on the surface of the black water and the blinking red light of a passing sailboat was a meteor interrupting the calm of the submerged stars. A chill wind swept over the glossy water and sent the flags at the ship’s bow whipping back and forth.

Auron carded his fingers through his hair and sighed deeply, wiping away the beads of tears gathering at the corner of his eye. His back arched over the railing and he dipped his trembling fingers into the water, swirling a tiny whirlpool, mesmerized by the undulating reflection of the lights as his thoughts spiraled with equal dissonance. _Is everyone gone? Has he come out of his room? I don’t like how I look in this suit. I’m cold._ A voice beside him caught his attention.

“Thanks for … you know ... being here, Auron,” the breathy sound of a stifled sob following her words, Tidus’ maternal aunt, a thin woman with tremulous hands, gingerly touched Auron’s shoulder. He nodded, frowning, and noting her purse clutched tightly to her side and her husband lingering impatiently nearby, Auron stood to bid her farewell.

“It’s … good to know you’re around,” she hugged him tightly, and he stiffened. “For him, ya know? The boy needs a father in his life and ... we know you’re a good man. I’ll do the best I can for him, bu-but my Edin never was good with kids … ugh, sorry ... ” She bit her lip and drew in a deep breath, wiping the tears from her eyes, turning around to blow her nose into a balled-up tissue.

“It’s alright.”  
“I miss her so much … ” she sniffled, “Guh, sorry, Auron. You’ll be alright for tonight? Sorry, we’re on our way out now.” Gathering her things, she motioned to her husband who curtly shook Auron’s hand and ushered his wife down to the dock. She turned and smiled, waving a hand before tucking it into her coat pocket.

“We’ll come by to pick him up when he’s feeling better. Edin will be over next week to sort some things out with the school. Good night ... please call us if you need anything. ”

“Goodbye, Caela.”

Auron turned to leave, watching the pair clip briskly down the dockside to escape the wind which began to pick up. He pressed his hand against the door post, steadying himself before stepping down the stairs into the parlor of the house, his vision wavering slightly as the houseboat gently rocked in the current, the alcohol in his system leaving his extremities feeling unusually prickly. Everything, the room, the floor, the space in the kitchen, seemed so suddenly empty. The woman, depressed and inconsolable, who had secured herself to the sofa indefinitely, was gone now, only the imprint of her knees in the cushions left behind. For months her chin sat perched upon the window sill, her face sunburned, waiting for Jecht’s ship to roll in, waiting for any news, barely able to turn her head when Auron would stop by with the groceries. In full view of her son she left herself to waste away into a tangle of bedsores and graying hair, until one morning, when Tidus woke before the sun to dress himself for school, he found her body cold on the floor, limbs curled in, dead.

Leaflets and napkins, crumbs and empty glassware littered the house and was the only remaining evidence of her memorial. _I suppose I’ll have to get to that, too._  Exhausted, Auron moved through the living room and into the back of the house, pushing open the door to the guest room where he had been situated since the funeral. He shrugged off his jacket, kicked his shoes into a corner of the closet, folded up the black slacks and tie he had borrowed from the neighbor, and dug about through the dresser for his pajamas. Tucking his flannels and singlet under his arm, Auron spied his reflection in the vanity.

Scar tissue ran up and down his body as if someone had splashed it on him with a bucket. The dark barbs of his chest hair flowed in orderly lines down his torso but disappeared on his left side. He passed a hand over the blank skin of his left breast and silently wondered if he should shave his right armpit to match the bald flesh of his left. Looking quite the literal yin and yang, he dressed himself, and shuffled into the hallway, pausing at a door to his left which was covered in stickers and posters, any and all kinds of blitzball memorabilia.

“They’re all gone now. You can come out.”

He heard faint signs of movement from behind Tidus’ door, the shifting of bed sheets, sniffling, the back-and-forth patter of tiny feet on a cold vinyl floor. The doorknob clicked, and a little red face with wet eyes peered up at Auron from the dark of his room. His dirty blond hair hung in his face in a tangled mess, and Auron pushed the boy’s bangs back with a firm thumb, smiling softly. They were quiet for a moment as they looked at each other, neither knowing exactly where to begin.

“Are you alright?”

“ … I feel kinda sick … ” He squeezed his stomach.

“Your belly? It’s late, little one. You should get some sleep.” Auron pushed into the room and sat at the foot of Tidus’ bed, leaning his elbows on his thighs as the little boy crept under his blankets, centering his head on his pillow as he looked up expectantly at his caretaker.

“Something wrong?”

“Auron? … I’m scared … ”

“Why’s that?” Auron asked as he stood to tuck the boy securely in, pushing the mess of Tidus’ hair back to feel his forehead for a temperature with the back of his palm.

“I’m scared ... ‘cause what if you leave me too? Like mom … and  da-… and I don’t wanna be alone … not anymore.”

Tidus pressed his palms against his eyes to stop his tears, but they flowed down to wet his pillow despite his best efforts. Auron frowned. _I’m so selfish._  His nerves urged him to pull away, but when the young boy fell out of bed to embrace the warrior, sobbing into his chest, little knees digging into Auron’s lap, he let his arms wrap themselves around Jecht’s child, his child, and swayed him back and forth as comfortingly as he could manage. _Why can’t I comfort him? What do I say? He’s going through the same thing that I am, and I’m .. supposed to be strong._

Auron smiled, nervously leaning his cheek against the boy’s mop of hair, surprised by how hot the top of his head seemed to be burning. _My own cheeks feel hot. Am I crying?_

“I don’t want you to leave ... please stay?”

“Now, how could I ever leave you? You’re holding on too tight!”

\---

They sat in silence for a long time, the tide rocking them into a sleepy trance, arms tight around each other, breathing synchronized. The gruff man had nearly fallen asleep cross-legged on the floor until the small voice of his charge roused him awake.

“Auron…?”

“ … yeah?”

“You’re too fat to fit in my bed. Can I sleep in your room?”

Auron laughed, and lifted Tidus in his arms as he stood to exit the room.


	7. In the Fog

For the first time in years, there in the cold of the darkening day, Auron thought about his mother. She was a harried woman, with a tempered smile and tired eyes, carrying a large body and enveloping arms which made her hugs impossible to escape. Gray curls twisted through her mousey hair, an apron desperately trying to contain her matronly shape, covered in flour and cat fur and the frayed threads of twenty years’ time. A collector of husbands all of whom she’d outlived, she loved her children above all things. There were five boys and two girls, in a tiny home on the outskirts of the city, constituting just enough space to live, with girls in one bedroom and boys in the other. From the barnyard in the back his mother ran her bakery, peddling bread and eggs and her company on the hazy afternoons when her children were out.

Auron was her oldest child. The son of a Yevonite soldier, an extenuated man of poor health and poorer temper who was killed before his wife had given birth, Auron had been named for him, and seemed to have inherited both his nerves and pig-headedness. Seven years older than his closest sibling, the boy was fiercely attached to his mother and unnecessarily responsible for his age, in charge of his little brothers, attending his baby sisters, caring for the livestock, and overseeing their involvement in the temple. It was customary for boys in the clergy to leave home for the monastery at thirteen, and Auron recalled the dark morning of his departure, night still hanging over the valley. His belongings slung in a sack over his shoulder, he crept about the house and woke his siblings to say goodbye, though when he reached the door, his mother, sleepless from a night of crying babies, held him for an hour, refusing to let him move, planting kisses all over his face like a chicken pecking seeds until the first few rays of sunlight peeked over the hills and he had to push her away. 

He could recall her face, the sun browned quality of her skin, flat wrinkled lips and gleaming gray eyes, her strong arms and fingers, the way her skirts would sweep the floor as she shuffled around the house, and how she would laugh, and scold him for being so deathly serious. How she cried when Auron left home, and how her body lingered in the window until his silhouette disappeared into the fog.

Auron’s head bobbed as he began to slowly slip in and out of consciousness, unaware of the group of Ronso which had gathered around him, whose rumbling voices asked his name in broken Spiran, again and again until the wounded man collapsed face first into the snow.

 

\--

“Rin! Tet oui tu dra pitkadc oad?”

He was having a dream of being alone.

Darkness, black water floating in a sea of ruins, the gasoline rainbow of pyrefly tails curling in and out of holes in the blackness mesmerized him in a swirl of abalone. A single silver earring caught the light in the distance, a bellchime, Ronso tails, his arms were heavy, he couldn’t swim and the blackness flowed in and out like the waves of a phantom pain in the back of his mind. In the crashing water only a baritone voice could be heard, soft, in the distance, and Auron wriggled against the tide to draw nearer. The voice seemed so familiar. Comforting. A low timbre, even tempered, pious words with an air of merciful grace, forgiving, Braska’s voice, his mother’s voice, someone dear and ordinary reaching out to him in the black dark. 

“E ryjah'd ryt y lryhla. Lyh oui kad Tiskel du dyga y muug yd dras?”  
“Fro? Ec ra yfyga? Ymnekrd, E'mm lusa pylg mydan.”  
“Dryhg oui.”

A door shut. Auron’s eyelashes adhered to each other tightly and an audible tearing interrupted the voice as his eye flickered open, shutting, opening, awake but unaware, the blackness slowly dissipating as he noticed a figure moving side to side on the periphery of his vision. Confusion and hysteria clouding his mind, he thrashed himself violently, grunting, startling whoever was looming nearby and causing them to drop something to the floor. 

“Ah! Tysh ed!”

The baritone voice. Auron’s heart pounded wildly against his chest as he tried to free himself from his bonds, but was unable to move. Pain shot up his spine and down his legs. A hand gripped his arm firmly, and Auron’s eye rolled about in his head trying to focus on the human face which hung close to his own.

_ Are those eyes on it’s head? No, wait … goggles. It’s an Al Bhed. Green eyes, blond hair, yeah, an Al Bhed all right. Is he real? Am I real? Where am I, there aren’t Al Bhed in Zanarkand. Wait, I’m not in Zanarkand. I think I’m drooling.  _

“Guh… ahh … guh...”  
“Have no fear, my friend,” the Al Bhed’s accent was thick but intelligible, “You are understandably slobbery.” He dabbed a tissue at the corner of Auron’s gaping mouth before holding it against Auron’s nose and instructing him to blow. It took a few minutes, piecing together where eyes and nose and mouth belonged, but Auron eventually recognized the face - it was the Al Bhed merchant, Rin, perpetual busybody and entrepreneur, one of the Al Bhed whom their party had encountered a number of times on their pilgrimage - and, from the looks of it, Rin had recognized him as well. The Al Bhed was working diligently, a set of potions and herbs on a tray beside him, his hands dyed brown with old blood as he cleaned the wounds covering Auron’s broken body which lay nude on a backless settee in a small room at the back of Rin’s agency. _I’m naked. What?_

“Guh… gah guhz …”

He peered down, noticing he had also been shaven as his beard was no longer obstructing his view, and his stomach churned as he surveyed the damage. His lower body was wrapped completely in gauze, pools of red seeping through in some places on his legs, and on the floor beside where Rin sat was piled a stack of soiled towels, and a bucket. 

“Do you need to vomit again?” Rin asked, reaching for the bucket. Auron didn’t respond. “I assure you,” Rin laughed as he snipped away a bit of gauze from the wrapping on Auron’s arm, “there is nothing left in you to eject.”

He stood, and wiped a layer of sweat from his brow, pulling down his goggles to inspect them for grime. Rin smiled, his eyes kind and sincere, and he looked for a moment at a clock on the wall. His body sunk, and he turned his attention once more to Auron. 

“There now. I do hope you are feeling better. We could not save the right eye but the rest of you seems to be ...  mostly in tact. You are an expensive mess.”

“Guh…”

“Hm. I will apply another potion. You should feel no pain now, Sir Auron.”

“Gaga...hz…. et… ” Auron stammered.  _ Sir? _

“What was that? Gagazet?” 

Rin spread an Al Bhed salve over his hands and rubbed it gently over Auron’s chest and arms, under his armpit, around his throat, where the ice had blackened his skin, and Auron felt warm and numb all over. Something of a smile passed over him.

“The Ronso who brought you in claimed to have found you there, at the summit. You must have had quite a fall. But do not worry! You are in good hands.”

“Than...k…”

Rin smiled. “Not at all.” 

He rose, and looked Auron over, before turning to dig about in a wicker chest behind him. Rin pulled out a colorful woolen blanket and draped it over Auron’s thighs and abdomen. He stepped to the door, and ducked out, laughing.

“We do not want the girls coming in here and getting ideas, now, do we!”


	8. On The Tide

Summer came in on a long white cloud. The gulls on the wing had caught a headwind, ostensibly hovering in place as the breeze swept a glissando over their feathers. Auron was experienced enough now to know the best spot on the beach, and sat in the sand with the sun at his back and his toes in the surf. 

His book lay face-down on his lap, abandoned as he observed the peeping sandpipers bobbing up and down the strand, poking holes in the loam, catching the midge flies which congregated on the sundried kelp that littered the coast in great heaps. Gossamer beach grass popped from the sand in little coteries, and here and there a fiddler crab would cautiously scuttle from the water to make a home in the umbrage. Auron scanned the horizon, finding himself missing the curly palm trees that grew in abundance on Besaid, more partial to the lush vegetation of the island than to the gravelly Zanarkand shore where, unless one had the foresight to bring along an umbrella, shade was scarce. 

A few fishing trawlers drifted past, their sails round with the wind, striped blue and white like the pimpled surface of the blitzball propped under Tidus’ knobby ankles. A magazine tented over his face, the boy was snoozing in the warmth of the sun, arms folded comfortably behind his head. He jolted suddenly as his guardian plopped a cold daub of sunblock onto his belly.

“Eee!”

“Sunscreen. You’re getting red,” Auron dictated, turning his attention back to the mellow rhythm of the tide, watching the fishing dinghies bobbing in the surf. There in the hot sand, for a moment, he forgot; lost in the blue of the day, his gaze wandering the cerulean expanse of the horizon where sea and sky coalesced into one. A balmy aroma of sea salt and lemon grass lingered on the wind, and Auron sucked in a hearty breath. He shut his eyes to the sun and lay back in the sand, tugging his collar down from where it touched the base of his throat.

The soft splashing of the water against his feet and the sound of a faraway guitar lulled him into a drowsy quiescence, and for the first time in years he drifted into a sound sleep, undisturbed by troubling visions, dreaming only of the subtle rustling of swaying reeds.

\---

Auron wasn’t sure how long he had slept, waking gradually under the shade of Tidus’ shadow, who was sitting cross-legged with his elbows balanced on his knees, watching the distant fisherman casting nets over the sides of their skiffs. On his nose were perched an oversized pair of sunshades, which Auron quickly recognized as his own. He yawned and folded his arms behind his head, startling the boy who was lost in thought.

“Oh, sorry,” Tidus stuttered, nervously slipping the shades from his face and folding them neatly, “I borrowed your glasses. It was kinda bright and you were sleeping…”

Auron raised his eyebrows, pressing his lips together in an inconsequential expression. “Hm. That’s alright,” he chuckled, squinting against the sunlight as he sat up, brushing the layer of sand from his skin.

Tidus looked towards the water with a longing countenance, pursing his lips. It had been a little over a year since his last trip to the beach, the boy having only recently found the energy to return since the loss of his mother. His eyes moved to Auron, who was watching him expectantly.

“It’s been over a year,” Auron’s voice broke the momentary silence.

Tidus’ expression fell, annoyed by the bluntness of the reminder, though he was unsurprised, having grown accustomed to Auron’s characteristic insensitivity. 

“Yeah,” the boy sighed, circling his arms around his legs and pressing his mouth against his knee, turning his face away which glowed warm from the beginnings of a sunburn.

Auron smiled somberly, chiding himself for yet again being too brusque. Admittedly, he was still acquainting himself with the proper way to speak to a troubled eight-year-old. 

“Auron?”

“Mm.”

“I wanna swim. You have to come with me,” Tidus rested his chin on his knee and furrowed his brow.

“Alright.”

Auron peeled off his undershirt, a size too small, which he had scavenged from the armoire in his room, and the two of them waded into the shallows, Tidus clutching his guardian’s hand with an almost phobic apprehensiveness. They advanced; Auron paused as Tidus slowly accumulated the courage to submerge himself in the briny surf, lifting the scrawny kid up by his wrists when the waves came in fast and smacked against Tidus’ face, and when at last the boy was belly deep in the surf, he refused to go further.

“No more?”  
  
“Wait…”

They stood together for a long while, salty hands tightly clasped together, until Auron remarked that he was sore, and promptly sat down in the water, the waves beating lightly against his chest and frothing around him as if they were crashing on a cliff face. 

Without a word, Tidus freed his hand and gingerly climbed onto Auron’s shoulders, careful not to knock his knees against his head, wrapping his arms tightly around Auron’s neck much like a infant monkey might around its mother, perching his chin on the mop of peppery hair which had begun to curl from the salt in the air. They sat together in the surf like a totem pole washed out to sea until the breeze ran cold and the sand crabs began investigating Auron’s shorts.


	9. The Catalyst

_ “Papa’s little honey bee, _

_ humble little bumble bee, _

_ Buzz, buzz, buzz _

_ How you hum inside my heart! _

 

_ Papa’s little beauty, my _

_ cutie little fruity fly, _

_ Promise me, _

_ we’ll never be _

_ apart.” _

 

Braska’s feet kicked back and forth in the tepid waters of the Moonflow, his robes gathered in a bunch around his white thighs. Undulating ribbons of color glittered in the water, trailing behind the pyreflies which had collected in small numbers on the budding moon lilies along the shore. The summoner’s voice seemed to soothe them. 

 

_ “Papa’s little pyrefly… _

_ My feisty little firefly, _

_ Shine, shine, shine _

_ so the world can see you glow. _

 

_ Papa’s little honey bun, _

_ funny little sunny one, _

_ Papa’s leaving for a while _

_ but doesn’t want to go …” _

 

The travel agency was dark, sleep tugged at Auron’s eyelids, but the memory of the nightly lullaby, sung in a spot far removed from the campsite but often within earshot, played in his head ceaselessly, until he found himself humming the tune.

 

Braska dabbed gently at the tears streaming down his cheeks, uncaring if anyone had seen his shame, and after taking a deep breath he tried to continue his crooning, though the touch of a hand to his shoulder surprised him.

“Lord Braska,” Auron’s voice was soft, almost inaudible.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Auron paused, feeling his chest tighten. He had heard it before, that gut reaction, Braska’s unthinking response to a soft voice, a hand on his sleeve, one which came so naturally he often could not understand his guardians’ puzzled reactions. This time Braska realized his mistake, but only looked down.

“I miss her, Auron,” he sighed. Though tears escaped him his voice was composed. Serious as always. A smile on his lips.

“I understand, my lord.”

“No,” Braska shook his head, smiling. “Excuse me for saying it, but, having no children, you ... can’t possibly understand. What is it we’re trying to accomplish? What … am I doing here, Auron?” He turned, his smile betraying his wet cheeks, his hopeful eyes suddenly squinted and tired. A twinge of fear gritted Auron’s jaw. He held his breath, searching for what to say, feeling the weight of Braska’s dependence on him reaching its critical mass, as if any moment he might collapse from the pressure.

“You’re doing it for her, Lord Braska,” Auron eventually stammered. His hand tightened its grip on the summoner’s robe.

“You’re giving Yuna a chance.”

 

Rin rose early, preparing his breakfast before sunlight broke over the Calm Lands, his face drawn from a long night of travel and unexpected hospice care. A piece of toast, with a margarine spread, accompanied by an entire tin of black coffee which he would nurse throughout the morning. Business as usual, he mused, after all, it was a welcome part of life for the modern Al Bhed. He pocketed the fat purse of gil which had been left for him at the counter, cheerfully patting his side to hear the coins jingle, and catching himself on the edge of the desk as his foot suddenly slid from underneath him. A trail of blood, footprints to the left and a long, smeared streak to the right, led from the back room and out the front door, far across the grassy plains of the Calm Lands where they disappeared into the morning mist.


End file.
